Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK (18 page)

Brand examined his finger, thinking it looked the same to him. But wait… was that a new growth of nail? He pushed his finger back into the purplish mass and left it there for several seconds.

“That’s long enough,” snapped Piskin.

Brand pulled his finger out, and indeed, it appeared to be fully whole again. Pink skin covered the tip. On the back rode a fresh, unblemished nail.

Experimentally, he next touched his cheek to the sphere, the results were the same. He sighed and smiled despite himself when he pulled away from the gelatinous touch of the bubble.  His face was smooth and fresh again. His beard was still gone there, but he suspected it would now grow in to match the rest.

Excitedly, he reached down to take hold of Telyn. He would grab her up, as gently as he could, and lift her into the bubble of mixed bloods. His heart leaped, he would save her after all. He would save them both!

Before he could move further, the bubble popped. A splash of dead blood splattered his boots and wetted the dark glade, which was already sticky with a dozen such fluids.

Piskin chuckled at his dismay. “First, there shall be a bargaining.”

Brand looked up slowly. His eyes were hooded, but he knew he was at the other’s mercy. Such a strange twist of fate, he thought. Here he was, quite probably the most dangerous fighter in Cymru, and he had been bested by a knee-high manling and his tiny hound.

He took a deep breath then, damning the immediate pain created by the wriggling points within his chest and fighting not to cough. He would bargain, if that was how it was to be. He would bargain, but he would not grovel. He would not become Piskin’s creature. He would not abase himself, nor turn traitor and let his axe fall upon the River Folk. He would listen, and decide if death were preferable.

“I will listen to your terms,” he said.

Piskin strode about the place confidently. Now and then, he dipped a finger into a bloody wound or a puddle of gore, and as often or not he tasted the finger. He resembled a smug farmer, judging a ripe field of grain which was more than ready for the harvest.

“What varied and sweet flavors your folk have. I found a bit of yours here, I believe, on this goblin’s blade. These others,” Piskin gave a little shudder, as if revolted. “Not only are they unpleasant flavors to begin with, but the merlings in particular taste like mud. I suppose the bloods of various creatures are not all the same to the distinguishing palate, just as wines from different grapes don’t taste alike. The goblins are bitter, it seems to me. While the rhinogs are simply foul.”

“Are you going to describe your bargain?”

Piskin continued talking as if he had not heard. “But it is all
stale
, all befouled by death. Like beer left to sit overnight. I need
fresh
blood, you see, to start any spell. The hound can be fed any blood, but to start things, it needs to be fresh.”

“I don’t have all night, Piskin.”

Piskin halted and faced him. He grinned widely. “No. No indeed, you do not. I’m quite sure of that.”

“So,” said Brand, trying to contain his growing anger. “What would you want in return?”

“A trifling affair.”

“Explain, I grow weary of treating with you.”

“Tired already? Have you lost so much blood as that? A pity. I hear her shallow breathing as well. Your love no longer mewls in your arms. She dreams the final dreams in gray lands beyond our reckoning now.”

 “Get on with it then,” Brand snapped. He wished he had thought to thrust his entire body into the bubble now. Perhaps he could have gotten enough healing from it, before Piskin let it pop, to allow him to bargain from greater strength. Mentally, he shrugged. The spell had ended, the opportunity was gone.

“I do believe we can come to an easy arrangement. Firstly, you must agree never to attack me. The axe must never so much as twitch in my direction. There shall be none of your blinding beams of light or slashing about.”

Brand tried hard to think. When bargaining with the Fae, one had to be careful and non-committal. A thoughtful turn of phrase might prevent disaster later.

“I find that agreeable, but reserve the right to defend myself if you or yours attack me or any of the River Folk.”

Piskin tilted his head. His tiny, thin lips pursed themselves. “Fine. Let us move on to the second point, concerning a traitor to my people known as Tomkin.”

Brand snorted. “Tomkin is the traitor?”

Piskin shrugged. “In my way of thinking, yes. There is a debt yet to be repaid with him. I require the Blue Jewel to be transferred into my possession.”

“You think you could wield the Red and the Blue?” asked Brand, taken aback by the other’s audacity.

“My purposes are my own. I ask only your aid. A quick flick of the wrist, I would imagine, would suffice. The bounder would be cut in twain and the Jewel could be easily delivered to me.”

Brand shook his head. “I can’t do as you ask.”

“Not even for your life?” asked Piskin, grinning again.

“No.”

“Not for the life of your lady?”

Brand shook his head. “You ask too much. I will not dishonor myself or my folk in such a manner.”

“Bah! Tomkin would do it in a moment if the roles were reversed.”

“I do not think so,” said Brand. “He is my friend.”

Piskin blew out his cheeks in disbelief.

“It is true. We have a strong friendship, Tomkin and I. That friendship has been earned, not given. As all true friendships must be.”

Piskin peered at him in wonder. “You speak wisely. Ever, it must be so.” He sighed and strutted. “This stubbornness on your part is unforeseen. However, the Blue is not really critical to my personal plans… I suppose I could let it go, and other, sponsoring parties can take up the matter on their own. My circumstances have changed. I no longer need to serve others. In short, I think we can still work a deal, if you will agree to one more trifling detail.”

At this point, a third person entered the conversation. A figure came out of the dark trees behind Piskin, where she had been hiding all along. She wore a white gown, which was torn and dirty. By her swollen belly and haunted face, Brand knew in an instant she must be Mari.

“Brand,” she said, stepping out from the trees where she had been hiding throughout the confrontation. “Lord Rabing, I mean. May I speak with you?”

“Of course,” answered Brand.

“Silence, gross woman!” said Piskin gruffly. “You will attend me shortly, I’ve all but concluded my business here. I won’t have you interrupting your betters. It’s simply rude, even for a peasant girl.”

“Silence yourself, Piskin,” she returned crossly. “We’ve come to the point of parting ways, I believe. This is the Haven, is it not?”

“It is,” said Brand, watching the two of them. “Although we stand within the Deepwood, the Berrywine runs only a mile or two east of here.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” she said. She turned to Piskin. “We’ve reached the Haven, and I’ve been delivered into the hands of its Champion. I can’t think of a better way to call your part of our bargain finished, Piskin.”

Piskin made an annoyed gesture, flapping his hand at her. Mari advanced and stood near Brand, whose eyes stayed upon the manling. It was quite possible, he knew, that this entire sequence of events was some kind of elaborate ruse. Perhaps, stealing the axe was still the other’s goal.

Mari found Telyn and stooped, trying to administer whatever aid she could. Brand decided he could trust her, and would offer her what protection he could. She was, after all, the reason he had come on this ill-fated expedition.

“You have not yet stipulated your third requirement,” said Brand. Time was pressing. His heart and Telyn’s still beat, but for how much longer? Already, he felt himself sway upon his feet.

“How interesting! How fine a point of my existence this moment is! Shall I request that you kneel before me, axeman? Shall I request you bequeath me the axe?”

“As I said, that is impossible.”

“Ah, but I have only to wait, don’t I? Should I desire a second Jewel, another richly deserved boon for the Wee Folk, it will be mine within the hour.”

“You would not be able to carry it. Not physically, or mentally. Two Jewels—neither properly attuned—you would be lucky to survive a single hour.”

Piskin smiled and nodded. “That makes two of us, does it not, my friend?” He chuckled, enjoying his own joke immensely.

Brand’s brow tightened and again he knew if the matter wasn’t decided soon, he would have to slay this manling, if only to prevent him from torturing any more of his folk. Perhaps Mari would yet walk out of these woods alone, the sole survivor of this dark night.

Piskin sensed his mood. “No feeling for humor, you louts. Very well, the third and final stipulation is that I be allowed to travel the Haven freely, with no form of interference from you or your axe. I must also be allowed, as a changeling, to indulge myself in my natural calling.”

“You mean you wish to steal babes?” asked Brand, taken aback. He had not thought of this wont, not among all the dark ideas he had considered.

Piskin tsked and tutted. “Harsh words,” he said, shaking his head. “I only wish to be comforted by a few of your finest maids. Why, I ask for no more than what any infant would want. Surely, you won’t deny me this simple pleasure in trade for the life of your own lady?”

Brand stared at him. Piskin was indeed a monster. He hesitated, thinking about it. “I can’t do this thing.”

“Hold,” said Piskin, taking a step forward. He leaned excitedly, sensing weakness.

Could it be, thought Brand while he watched the manling, that securing this disgusting indulgence was his primary goal?

“Don’t decide with haste!” said Piskin. “Remember, your own woman lies here in the balance. What’s more, if I simply wait, I may have my pick of your mothers anyway.”

“If you should fall, Lord,” said Mari suddenly from behind Brand, “I will take up your axe myself and cleave this little blighter in two!”

Brand smiled with half his mouth. Somehow, he believed her.

“There’s no need for any of this unpleasantness,” said Piskin. “I’ll add this to the offer as well: none of the Rabing clan’s children will be touched. Nor shall your babe be touched, girl. I’ve had quite enough of your embrace for a lifetime.”

“Take the deal, milord,” Mari hissed at Brand’s back. “Without you, we are all lost anyway.”

Brand turned his eyes to look at Telyn. She had a deathly pallor. She had not moved nor made a sound since the goblin captain had driven home his cursed dagger.

“I accept, but you must bring any stolen babes to my clan, that we may care for them. You are not to dispose of them in the River or the wood,” said Brand. As he said these words, he wondered what new dark path he had set his foot upon.

“We have a bargain, Axeman!” said Piskin. “Stand well back. My hound thirsts.”

Piskin set to work, loosing his Blood magic immediately. He began by methodically stabbing every nearby body. A few moaned and squirmed, not yet corpses. A great ball of blood formed over his head and floated behind him and his hound. The bloodhound, for its part, licked the open wounds of every corpse greedily.

“So much blood,” cackled Piskin. “Surely even you, my pet, will be sated tonight!”

Brand watched, sickened, as the healing ball came to them and he bathed Telyn in it, allowing its sticky embrace to repair limb, skin and punctured organ.

After a few minutes of bloody, stinking work, four silvery points twisted out of their bodies, one from Telyn and three from himself. The points clinked upon the ground and wriggled there like exposed worms. The metallic points died slowly, as if they were indeed worms, twisting upon a hot slab of sunlit stone.

Chapter Thirteen

The Dead Speak

Oberon had but one call yet to make. This last one, the most crucial, would tip the balance of power clearly in his favor, should he be successful. He had little to offer the Dead, however, except a great bounty of new minions.

Even Oberon, ancient and knowing as he was, did not seek the Dead without trepidation. Of all the folk of Cyrmu, they were easily the most mysterious. Their motivations were strange—twisted. They did not seek to build. They did not seek to destroy. Some thought they sought rest, but why then did they occasionally march upon the land and the floor of the sea, slaying all that stood before them?

Any sane being feared the Dead and their awesome power. If they all arose at once, how could the living hope to prevail against them? What generation of any folk were not outnumbered by all their passed on ancestors, should they decide to rise up from their cold slumber and slay their own descendants?

The Dead felt nothing, most of them. Not sorrow, remorse, joy or pity. Certainly pain and mercy were beyond them. Those times they had marched in the past—and Oberon was old enough to remember several such events—they had devastated all that stood in their path. They had
consumed
the living, adding them to their own ranks as fresh troops with every bloody yard of ground gained. They had only been stopped by some failure within their own multitudes, some signal to sleep once more.